


One Summer in Solheim

by invisibledeity



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Chronic Illness, Coping Mechanisms, F/M, Healer!Ardyn, Mentions of religion, Pain, fem reader - Freeform, healing fic, set in Solheim, sexually charged healing, soft fic, this is for my female fans who like Ardyn, yeah I still hate game!Ardyn but healer Ardyn is okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 09:14:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11055921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/invisibledeity/pseuds/invisibledeity
Summary: Fem!Reader meets Ardyn, the Healer Saint, outside one of the temples of Solheim. He can see she's suffering, and he intends to do something about it.





	One Summer in Solheim

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyProto](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyProto/gifts).



> This is for LadyProto, because I thought you could do with some lovely soft Ardyn content. 
> 
> It's my first F/M fic and my first reader insert fic, so I hope you enjoy it. Female readers who like my other Ardyn stuff, you may enjoy it too. I know there's a fair few of you out there!

Another late Solheim evening. It’s the height of summer, so the air’s hot and stifling, and insects infest the air like motes of dust that won’t leave. You’re on your way up to the temple when your legs start to seize up. Muscles tight and fit to burst, screaming for attention out of nowhere. The wave of pain comes on strong and before you know it you’re doubled over, grabbing at the marbled wall, eyes clenched up tight and damn, you thought you’d been so careful today. You’d taken your medicine. You’d eaten well. You’d stayed hydrated and you hadn’t walked too far. So why now? Why, when you’ve taken time you don’t have from a schedule you can’t keep? You had decided to visit this temple in the vain hope it’ll make _something_ better, so this feels like a real kick in the teeth.

            Ugh. No point making yourself miserable. It’s done. You just have to deal with it now.

            You shudder as you draw in a deep breath, and you hitch up your skirt to grip your right calf, trying to soothe the clenching muscle. You don’t get as far as your left, because there’s the sound of footsteps at the far end of the vestibule.

            Your head turns in the direction of the sound, and you do your best to ignore the lancing pain at the base of your skull. There’s the figure of a man there, dressed in flowing layers of fabric, and at first you think there’s a halo about him, but it’s merely the light from inside the hallowed temple, glowing at his back, creating the illusion. Your eyes widen.

            It’s Ardyn Lucis Caelum. The Healer King. He’s practically a god, chosen by the Astrals, and even at this distance, he’s _gorgeous_. You recognise his face, his clothes, from the posters and the footage on your vid screens, because Solheim is nothing if not a glutton for its saviours.

            He’s walking towards you, boots echoing on the long, flat marble slabs and you’re acutely aware you haven’t showered this morning. That’s a task you usually leave until evening, when your muscles can relax like jelly and just collapse into bed afterwards. You try not to think about it too keenly. He’s not going to care anyway - you’re hardly important. He must have better places to be. But you are blocking the hallway, so you try to shift. It’s awkward.

            Ardyn bends down into a half-kneel beside you. His long layers of fabric splay on the ground, picking up dust, but he pays this no mind. His hair is the colour of wild lingonberries, thick and luxurious, and it’s a lot fluffier than it looks in his photos. His intense amber eyes bore into yours, and he looks concerned.

            ‘Where does it hurt?’

            He hasn’t bothered to introduce himself. You are somewhat taken aback by the fact he’s gone straight to the point, but his gaze is so commanding you can’t help but obey. You purse your lips tight and indicate towards your calves.

            ‘I’m sorry, I…’

            He puts a hand to your cheek. His touch is warm, and you’re reminded of your mother’s kitchen. Soft baked goods fresh from the oven, filling the room with a sense of nurture, a sense of safety. You’re awestruck.

            ‘Hush, now. I can see you’re in pain. Please, let me do my duty.’

            At first you’re too shocked to reply. Your heart’s beating fast because his stubbled chin is so close to you, and your first thought is _how would it feel if it were to brush my cheek_. His face is too finely-sculpted; youthful, but betraying a deeper maturity beneath the surface. It’s so very attractive, and it sets your pulse racing.

            But then you picture your own face in your mind’s eye, framed by hair that you know frizzes in all the wrong places, and the mismatch between the two of you seems too keen. He’s a saint, and you’re… well… you. Suddenly, this all feels wrong.

            You start to make your excuses.

            ‘I can’t imagine why you’d want to bother with me. You must be busy. I’m hardly…’

            He silences you with a finger pressed soft against your lips. His touch is electric, and you want to lean into it, barely restraining yourself. The vestibule’s meant to be cool, meant to allow air to circulate into the dome of the temple, but right now it feels like the air around you has heated up by several degrees. There’s a knot unfurling in the pit of your belly as he moves to grip your shoulders firmly, gently, steadying you. He pushes you down all the way to the ground, and you obey, yielding to his touch. He has no need to use force. You feel honoured, you feel unworthy, you feel so, so small beneath him. You wind up sitting on the white stone floor. You’re not wearing stockings under your skirt, but the slabs are so warmed from the sun it’s quite pleasant, and you don’t mind. Your legs splay out in front of you and you start to move them together out of common decency, although you know the tension makes your muscles hurt. But something in Ardyn’s eyes stills your movements. You let your legs fall slack.

            Then he lays his hands on you. Palms encompassing bare knees, moving down in a tantalisingly slow, fluid movement to your ankles. The hallway grows a few shades lighter, and you wonder if you’ve glitched out of time somehow and it’s now dawn. But no, the sun’s still in the same low westward position. The golden glow is coming from Ardyn’s hands. Shards of _something_ , you’re not sure what, spin slowly like loose dust in the air, before sinking into your skin. It’s like he’s holding a heat pack to your skin, except it’s not the constricting, jelly-like heat of showering. This is refreshing, this feels like your cells are realigning, your muscles slowly unknotting themselves. The sharp, jagged edges smooth out and it’s such a change from the pain that your head spins and you feel quite giddy.

            ‘Whoa.’ You breathe out in small gasps, unable to believe what’s happening. This isn’t a massage but the magic runs deeper than any masseur’s hands have ever been able to sink. It’s more than just a physical thing. Contentedness, that’s what you feel. You’re falling into a pleasant trance.

            He murmurs something as he works, and at first you don’t catch it.

            ‘Huh?’ You feel foolish, your voice sounds too high-pitched, and you wince inwardly.

            He doesn’t miss a beat, doesn’t draw any attention to your awkward behaviour. ‘Your illness,’ he says, words spilling from his mouth like caramel. ‘Have the doctors given it a name?’

            ‘It’s, uh…’ You trail off. You’re not sure how to explain it.

            ‘Tell me.’

            ‘They don’t know.’ And you sigh, because it all feels hopeless. With all the medical advances of Solheim, the doctors still don’t know what to do, so how can a man of god know any better?

            ‘As I thought,’ he murmurs, and his voice is smooth and rich and you want to do nothing more than sink into it. _So this is what it means to be treated by a veritable healer_. You don’t know why you haven’t placed your trust in the religion of Lucis before. It’s dangerously addictive, you’re aware of this even after just a few minutes in his presence, but it’s _real_. The effect is soothing you, calming your torn-up muscles and healing your broken body. And that’s more than any medical professionals have ever been able to do for you.

            He hasn’t touched any higher than your knee, and yet you feel something delicious surge up from deep in your abdomen. It’s a dark feeling, but there’s purity there too. The sensation pulses, and usually this would press a painful aching sensation upon your bladder thanks to the illness, but right now, it’s just pure, unadulterated bliss. It’s orgasmic, it sets your nerves ablaze, and you shudder as you breathe in. You hear his lips part into a smile.

            He knows what he’s doing, all right.

            You’ve already given in, but you sink deeper into the feeling just the same. It’s the softest of beds, the warmest of baths, and as the honey glow fills every cell in your body, you think you’d be happy to give up even your life to him. Never mind that the logical part of your brain tells you what a foolish, naïve thought this is, for someone you’ve just met. Right now, this feeling, it’s stronger than logic. You’ll do anything for this kind of peace. Your chest rises and falls and you can feel your breasts swell, dimly wondering if he’s taking note.

            ‘Oh, Astrals,’ you murmur, and you bite your lip. Then you exclaim again, only you switch out the names of the gods for Ardyn’s. You hear a soft, low hiss of breath from him, and his hands stroke, almost fondle the soft hollow at the back of your knee. Suddenly you’re not sure who’s worshipping who, but you don’t care. You close your eyes, tilt your head back slightly, let your nerves continue their delicate shivering.

            After what feels like a glorious eternity, he lifts his hands from your skin. You open your eyes hazily, see him watching you with such a kind expression on his face. You know they call this man a saint, but you just can’t imagine how someone so kind is so real. His nature _is_ nurture. You want to cry.

 

Around you both, the sun has begun to set. The buildings of Solheim’s capital city are tall, thin and impeccably designed, and this makes long, sweeping shadows cast over the ground like silhouettes from a puppet play. You’ve always thought the sunset hours felt lonely in this city, but tonight you feel oddly connected to everything. Perhaps it’s the golden magic still nestling in your veins.

            Ardyn helps you to your feet. The dying light makes his russet hair look like flame, like those Magitek lights they’re so fond of illuminating the city’s architecture with, the ones designed to look like eternally-burning oil lamps. You’re so caught up looking at him that at first you don’t realise you’re standing now with little assistance. The pain is quelled.

            He extends a hand, and all you know is you trust this man wholeheartedly. His long sleeves brush your skin as you place your hand in his, and you feel encased in his warmth. You want to hug him, to bury your face in those folds of ornate fabrics covering his chest and just not emerge for hours, days, even. You subconsciously lean in. Then he smiles, all softness and grace, and he says,

            ‘Allow me the pleasure of seeing you to your front door.’


End file.
